Saving Himself
by DecemberLeBeau
Summary: He always knew he would fall... he just didnt know how hard. Saving himself was a challenge he wasnt so willing to take on. set before and after Alcotraz. Please comment! you are my inspiration.
1. Chapter 1

Jean Grey fell to the ground, the life and evil slowly leaving her lightening skin, and a peaceful, relieved smile quietly playing with the corners of her soft pink lips. The wolverine held her, embraced in his strong muscular arms, for the last time breathing in her scent. Why did such a thing have to happen? But as her life began to fade, her slim body gently lowered to the ground, the lives she took began to return around them, having been cheated of their short mortal existence, and offered by a higher power, the ever sought second chance. Logan, stunned into silence by the stiring bodies surrounding them, and ashes returning into whole beings, got up, picking up the deceased Phoenix and looked around to the waiting jet, just a few feet away. As he stepped down from the small mound, he felt a hand gently rest on his arm. He lifted his grief ridden gaze slowly to meet the sympathetic stare of Storm, her silver hair clinging to her face.

"Logan, we must help these people," she said, motioning to the injured and confused. He looked down upon the now still Jean, then back at Storm.

"Let me lay Her to rest."

After hours of salvation, provided by the team, lives were found and safe. They headed back towards the jet, drinking the satisfaction of the good they had achieved, Rogue clinging to Bobby's shaking hand. A small sound was just heard over the sounds of the their boots crunching against the debris. Logan's eyes scanned the wreckage trying to pinpoint the location of the sound, the other members tense, preparing for attack. He followed his animalistic instincts, picking his way through the discarded metal and crushed concrete. A hand, was just barely visible, its pale fingers shaking, grasping at the air around it. Storm kneeled down by the hand, her eyes examining the black band that covered the palm, the detailing triggering something inside her that screamed danger. She gently placed her finger ontop the band, and ran it along the jaws of the shark, its mouth open, ready to attack. And there was only on person she knew of, who had the picture of the shark on his person. Collosus, still in metalic form, lifted a large beam from ontop of the rest of the body.

"Logan…" Storm gasped, as the wolverine just turned away from the body, leaving him there to waste away in the cold night air.

"He deserves to suffer."

The young boy on the ground, drew on a deep staggered breath, tears streaming his face as he sobbed pitifully.

"Logan he's hurt…" Storm sympathised, cupping his trembling face with her hands, smoothing back his dirty blonde hair that stuck to his forehead. Her eyes traveled down his bruised body, tracing the cuts, untill they reached a piece of metal, similar in size and shape as one of Wolverine's claws. The metal spike was protruding from his stomach, blood gushing from around it and spilling onto his paling skin.

"We cant let him die," Storm pleaded as she stared into the young boys frightened blue eyes, offering a half smile to reassure him.

"P…please," the boy begged, his weak, pale fingers grasping onto the metal bar that skewered him to the ground. Logan eyed him suspiciously, every strand and fibre in his body screaming to just walk away, but the look in Storm's eyes rooted him to the ground.

"Please!" the boy gasped, starting to panic. He struggled, trying to sit up further but only succeeded in making his wound bigger. He let out a scream as Storm pushed him gently back to the ground. Bobby stood behind Storm, staring down at the boy. His old friend. Companion. His friend that he had left for dead, but who was now lying helplessly in front of him. A surge of emotions raced through him. He hated this boy, with an icy passion, but... seeing him lying there, like an injured child, confused the hate and anger. It was overwhelming, and he turned away, not bearing to look at him.

"We need to pull it out," Storm said, running her hand up the metal spike. The wolverine examined the spike, his green eyes searching for serated edges.

"Iceman, numb him," He sighed, defeated by the weather woman's over all power. Bobby, still not entirely trusting of his old friend, knelt down beside him placing his cold hands on the blonde's slim, pale waist, his thumbs gently pressing on the edges of the wound. The terrified boy let out a hiss, as Bobby's hands began to turn blue, as did the blonde's skin.

"Be careful Bobby," Storm said, proving that she also, was not entirely trusting of the flame thrower. "Pyro is a dangerous man."

She had said it. She had said his name and it still stroke fear and disappointment into those that had once knew him. Logan grabbed the top of the spike, with a growl and a surge of his bulging muscles, pulled it clean out, throwing it to the ground. Pyro, too exhausted to scream just lay on the ground, panting heavily.

"I don't trust him Storm," Bobby said finally, letting his hands return to their normal colour. He got up and looked back down at Pyro, his eyes clouding over with hate and pitty. Storm placed her hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

"Dont worry Bobby, he's not going anywhere for a while."

Logan picked up the surprisingly light boy and started towards the jet. Pyro's cold blue eyes staring aimlessly into space, a thousand and one thoughts rushing through his mind. He shivered, feeling the cold rush through his torn clothes and cling to his skin. The draining feeling he was getting from his middle, the blood running down his back and up Logan's arms, was pulling him unwillingly into unconsciousness. But the more he tried to fight that floating the feeling, the more it pulled one him, untill eventually, all went black.


	2. Chapter 2

____

*Sorry to the people i have kept waiting. been really quite busy!! and i had hardly any reviews so i didnt think anyone liked it*

He tried to open his eyes, but they seemed glued shut, painfully stinging. He sensed another presence in the room, wherever he was. He let out a soft gasp as a shooting pain, that started in his finger tips and escalated up his arm tingled into his shoulder. He tried to open his mouth, but his dry cracked lips, and aching joints kept it shut. He felt like screaming, screaming in pain and frustration. He could hear hushed whispers circulating round him, and he tried desperately to open his eyes again. He succeeded, yet only slightly, the burning white light forcing them closed again, making them water. A loose tear rolled down his cheek and he felt something gently wipe it off his face. He tensed, every muscle in his body stiffening, ready to attack. The thing on his face must have felt this, as it sharply moved away, far away, with a bit of hope. All sorts of thoughts and questions were beginning to work their way into his madness, making his already aching head spin.

Where am I? Who are these people? What happened to me? Why cant I move?

A sharp stabbing pain in his arm jogged his thoughts, making him cry out in shock. The voices around him began their hushed whispering again, the sound of paper being moved and pens being clicked. He gave up on trying to open his eyes and instead focused on his getting his voice working. He tried to open his mouth again, his aching jaw creaking as he did so and the warm air filling into his dry as sandpaper mouth.

"Water," he whispered, hoping that someone would hear him and fulfil his request.

"Mr Allerdyce, your awake now?"

He frowned. Mr Allerdyce?

"Water," he said again, and he felt hands slip under his back and push him up into a sitting position. He moaned in pain, a searing pain burning across his abdomen, his eyes squeezing tight. He was held up in the sitting position, the agonising sitting position, as someone poured water into his cut, bruised lips. He tried to open his eyes one more time, only to find that they were being opened, by a white rubber hand and a small light being shone in to them. He kept them open, even though they stung and watered and waited for them focus. As they came more into focus, he began to search the room, looking for a familiar face. But he didn't recognise any of them. They were all strangers, just pairs of eyes staring at him, waiting for him to do something. He tried to bring his hands up to his face, but they wouldn't lift any higher. He lowered his eyes down to his wrists to see the shiny metal cuffs that locked him to the sides of his metallic bed. He felt his heartbeat quicken, beginning to panic.

"What do you want with me," he gasped, as his heart beat faster and faster, the bleeping of the monitor quickening.

"Please, try and calm down," a woman said, her shoulder length silver hair framing her concerned, dark face. He shook his head and tried to pull himself away from her, but the cuffs kept firmly in position, and the agony of even moving the slightest inch made it impossible to move. He began to pant, his scarred, bruised chest heaving in gulps of air as he began to panic further.

"Where am I? I want to go? Who are you?" he breathed as he searched desperately for an exit, that wouldn't have been any use anyway. The silver haired woman studied his face, her arched eyebrows frowning slightly as he struggled pittifully against the cuffs on his wrists.

"John, your…" she said softly, gazing into his eyes, blue and wild and full of confusion and fear. He looked at her, tilting his head to the side slightly.

"Who's John?" he asked, trying to shift himself further back from the woman.

"It's me, Storm. don't you remember us?" she asked, motioning to the other people, who were dressed in similar uniforms of black leather suits. He just stared at them, his eyes wide, his body trembling as the uniformed strangers stared down at him.

"Please… please just let me go," he said, his eyes brimming with tears of confusion. He felt the hot tears slide down his face as his body shivered, and the strangers moved in closer too him. He panicked, pulling on his locks and whimpering as a huge wolf of a man pressed his firm grip onto his shoulders.

"Logan, get the professor," Storm said, as the tall, beastly looking man nodded and turned, leaving the room through a sliding door about 20 feet away.

"The… the professor? Who's he? Whats he gonna do to me?" he begged, trying to free his wrists from the metal cuffs.

"Ssh, calm down," Storm said again, sitting on the edge of his bed. The boy quivered, searching desperately for his only source of freedom. The tiny orange flicker of a flame, a spark, anything.

"Theres no use, John. This room is fire free," a voice said from behind him. A chill raced down the boys quivering spine, as the familliar voice filled his ears. The voice, who was supposed to be dead.


	3. Chapter 3

"Hello Pyro," came that sickeningly familiar tone. It was calm, as the faint sound of wheels glided gracefully over from behind him.

"Your supposed to be dead," John cried, his skin paling as he tried to back himself away from the apparent ghost, the metal restraints on his wrists binding him. His frantic icy gaze met the kind chocolate stare for a mere moment before snapping to the ground, his bottom lip trembling.

"Your safe now, Pyro. Your safe," the professor soothed, as the frustrated boy leaked tears of hot confusion, his icy stare burning with fiery rage.

Storm turned to face the professor, a questioning anxiety about her.

"Why does he remember you… and not us?" she asked, as John flinched away from her touch. Charles Xavier studied the boy closely, closing his eyes and penetrating the swirling thoughts and questions that baffled John's aching mind.

"I don't know Storm," he said finally. "Ill wait until he's calmed," he added, his answer aimed more at John than at Storm. He just sighed and collapsed onto his back, ignoring the pain the ripped through his abdomen and fell into a deep, far from peaceful slumber.

"Professor?" Storm asked quietly, as she closed the heavy oak door to his office. The professor was sat in his window, staring ambient out over the laughing children in the playing fields.

"His amnesia baffles me. He has no significant injuries to the head," the professor sighed, turning his chair around too face Storm. Storm stepped lightly over and perched herself in a green and mahogany chair by the desk.

"What do you think may have caused it?" she asked quietly, folding her smooth, dainty hands in her lap. The professor closed his eyes, very slowly shaking his head.

"I have not a clue."

John tossed his head to the side, his eyes squeezing tighter shut in his slumber. Images were flashing, racing, burning through his mind in a swirling dreary haze of madness. Faces loomed, glared and snarled, voices screamed, begged and cackled and the flames. The flames were there, searing through the blackened faces, torching the voices and comforting his icy soul. They danced for him, in a way that no one else could see. They called to him, in voice that no one else could hear. But most importantly, at least to John, was the way the flames embraced him, comforted and soothed him in a way that no one else could feel. But the fire was fading, and the voices and faces were darkening, coming closer. A woman, beautiful with long black hair and amber eyes. A child, with rosy cheeks, golden curls and icy blue eyes. Who were these people? The old man, the middle aged woman…

His eyes snapped open. He was panting, his chest heaving in breath as cold beads of sweat ran down his neck.

"Stay out of my head," he breathed, staring straight up into Xavier's chestnut gaze of concern. He lowered his hands from John's temples and placed them in his lap.

"Im here to help you John."

"I don't need your help."

"Then who were those people in your head?"

"…"

John looked away, his marine eyes shimmering as he forced himself to remember, a name, a face…anything. He looked back up at the professor, his blue eyes wide and innocent.

"How can you help me now? I'm useless…"

He pulled tentatively on his cuffs, sighing at the *chink* they made against the metal bars on his bed.

"I take it that Storm told you about your powers being temporarily disabled," Charles asked calmly, gliding over to the bed where john was sat. The blonde just looked away, a frustrated look on his face. The professor reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny silver key and opened the locks around Pyro's wrist. The cuffs fell away, revealing the deep, sores of ice burns, in a purple ring around his arm. John immediately pulled his hands into his chest, caressing his burning wrists, a pained expression on his face. Charles studied him for a while, taking in his sad appearance. He couldn't quite accept that this trembling person, was once a confident, powerful… terrorist. Feared, respected and worshipped, when he was really just a boy.

"Ive arranged some clothes to be bought to you in a moment. There are some people who would like to speak to you, John. Do you think you're up for that?"

John thought for a moment, then nodded slowly, his eyes not leaving the ground.

"Ill give you a moment."

A tall, dark man was waiting in Charles' office. He had silver grey hair, pulled back into a sleek ponytail and a long scar stretching from his right eyebrow down to his jaw. His emerald green eyes were piercing, and his smile was more of a smirk, revealing cracked yellow teeth.

"Mr Howell," Charles said, acknowledging him with a curt nod. The man chuckled, a deep, manic laugh.

"Its been a while," he smirked, twirling a piece of his silver hair in his fingertips.

"Yes well, there's a reason for that. Shall we begin?"

"You know the way."


	4. Chapter 4

"You may only answer, "yes", "no", "I am" or "I am not" to the following questions. Understand?" Mr Howell said, seating himself across the large, metal table across from John.

"Yes."

John sighed, looking around the small, hollow white room. The cold, steel table and two metal chairs the only items inside the walls. It was cold, and each whisper shouted around the room like an agonising echo. John looked up into Mr Howells dark green eyes, that eyed him as if he were no more than a specimen in a jar.

"Are you St John Allerdyce, of Melbourne Australia?"

"I am."

"Are you 19 years of age?"

"I am."

John looked back down to the table, his hands restrained behind his back for "safety precautions". Humiliation, more like. He slid down his chair a little, to lean back, the stitches in his stomach aching into him. He winced as the bandages wrapped around his middle, inched around, mercilessly pulling on the metallic stitching holding him together. He exhaled sharply, the oversized white jumper he had been given falling heavily around his shoulders.

"Are you aware of the temporary precautions concerning the disabling of your mutation?"

John's shoulders dropped, a desperate look clouding his eyes. Of course he was aware. He had never felt so useless, so desperate.

"I am." he said eventually, wincing under the smirk that played with Mr Howells lips. The dark man seemed to revel in Johns hopelessness, as if fuelling his further questions off the hate he inspired inside the fire starter.

"Are you aware of your sentencing to be held next month under the terrorism act?"

John suddenly looked up, his azure eyes squinted with confusion.

"No?"

Mr Howells cruel smirk morphed into an egocentric grin, spreading across his lined face.

"Your charges are as followed: Arson, Attempted Murder, Defecation of government property, Terrorism, Abduction, Treason and Breach of Mutant Rights."

John's jaw hung slightly open, his eyes wide. How? Why?

"I…" he started but couldn't find the words too express what he didn't remember.

"Oh, starting to regret are we?" Mr Howell snarled, leaning across the table, his emerald eye piercing through John's lucid stare. John slowly shook his head.

"I don't remember anything," he said quietly. His mind flicked back to his dream, the young woman and the child's face. Were they people he had killed? Coming back to haunt his every thought, moment. He thought of how beautiful the woman with the long black hair and amber eyes was, how she looked so gentle and kind. Did she have a family? Had he taken her, in cold blood, from people that loved her? And the little blue eyed, blonde haired girl. So young and innocent and full of hope and ambition, was she wrongly taken too an early fate, because of him?

"Did I kill people?" he asked, his voice shaking, as he tried desperately to blink back tears of pure, uncoated remorse.

"Yes. Hundreds. Thousands maybe."

John shook his head again, his mind clouding as he struggled to cope with the guilt that suddenly plagued him like a wave of smoke.

"One more question before you leave, Mr Allerdyce." Mr Howell said, pulling two pieces of what looked like white card from his jacket. John's mouth slid open as the two photographs were placed in front of him.

Staring up at him, were the smiling faces of a beautiful, pale woman with long black hair and amber eyes, and a little girl, with pink cheeks, blue eyes and blonde curls.

"Do you recognise these people?"


	5. Chapter 5

He collapsed too his knees, his fingers clawing the cold white tiles of the empty bathroom floor, hot tears splashing around his trembling hands in tiny colourless fountains. Why couldn't he remember? Who were these people? Who was that beautiful woman he dreamed of every night? The little girl…

His thoughts were interrupted by a hand on his shoulder, a warm, gentle hand, yet he still jumped. He looked away quickly, shamefully hiding his weakened state from whoever had caught him.

"John?"

It was just an ordinary voice. Nothing special, a soft breath of female melody. But that accent. That strong, Cajun accent. He had heard it before.

"Not now, please, go away" he sniffed, hastily wiping his face on his sleeve, his red blotchy cheeks stinging under the salted tears. She sat down next to him, tucking a long piece of white hair behind her ear.

"You don't have to suffer in silence, John," she said softly. He opened his mouth to speak, but paused, his eyebrows furrowing.

"Rogue?" he said uncertainly.

"yes?"

"Just seeing if that was your name."

Rogue sat in silence for a moment, before shrugging her shoulders, a curious expression on her face. He sighed, and leant back against the tiles, his marine stare resting on the floor.

"John, we all knew you before Alcatraz, I'm sure that… bit by bit, we can help piece you back together," she assured, resting her hand on his knee. He slid his watery gaze up to meet hers.

"Thing is Rogue… I don't think I want too know. I don't think I want too know about the person I used to be," he croaked, resting his aching head in his hands.

"You weren't a bad person Pyro. You were never a bad person," Rogue smiled, shaking his knee gently to regain his wondering attention. He stared into her eyes, a confused and lost glow in his eyes.

"Sure, you did some terrible things, but you were lost, confused… mislead. Your whole life was fuelled by anger and deceit," she explained, feeling his heart sink further into his chest.

"I killed people. Mothers and children," he said, pulling the pictures of the woman and the baby he was given out of his trouser pocket. He handed them too Rogue.

"I dream about them, every night. But I have no clue who they are," he sighed, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the wall. Rogue studied the pictures, her chestnut eyes widening slightly. She looked at John with a soft expression.

"You have no idea who these girls are?" she asked shakily, looking back at the picture. He shook his head.

"Should I?" he asked, opening his eyes again and looking down into Rogues hands.

"Her name is Aero," Rogue said suddenly, handing the photo of the beautiful woman with the long black hair too him. He held the picture preciously and studied with inquisitive detail.

"She was the same age as you. Beautiful, smart, passionate… Loyal," Rogue said gently, putting her hand on his arm. He strained for a memory, even a slight one, but could not conjure up even the illusion of knowing her.

"And the girl," he whispered, as he was passed the second photo.

"Ember. Her name was Ember. Aero's daughter," Rogue said, holding back a tear that fought to escape the fortress of her eyes.

"What happened to them?" John croaked, assuming the worst. Assuming that it was he who had mercilessly made them past tense.

"They disappeared. Just before we found you," rogue choked, standing up and turning away from him, hiding her face. John stood, ignoring the still burning pain he got from his stitches and put his hand on her shoulder. Fresh tears graced his pale face as he begged;

"please rogue. You knew them didn't you? Please tell me if it was me that made them disappear!"

Rogue turned too look him in the eyes.

"I'm not the person too talk too about this John, please," she cried, cupping his face gently and stroking his cheek with her thumb.

"please…" she whispered again, before running from the bathroom, leaving John to collapse back down to his knees, staring at the photographs with a mixture of resentment and desperation.

"_Aero…Aero…Aero…" _he chanted the name over and over in his head, untill it merged into one, long gasp of grief.

"Who are you?" he whispered too the photo, gently running his fingertip along the warming smile.

He pulled himself back up and tucked the photos back in his pocket, leaving the bathroom.

**Two years earlier - Camden Market, London, England. **

Heads stopped, turning to stare at the beauty who weaved gracefully in between the crowed, her curvaceous hips swaying between carrier bags and the heads of children. Camden market was an easy place too fit in if you were different. Punks, gypsies, Goths and teddy boys still roamed the dusty streets, purchasing relics from the past from old stables and shabby carts. Her cat like amber eyes peered at the Goths, that sat smoking in a circle, safely tucked from the suns beaming light under a tree. She ran a hand through her long black hair and sauntered over to them, her red heels clicking along the cobbled street. The Goths stared aggressively at her, through thick rings of black makeup. She wasn't one of _them_. What business would she have in their territory.

"Fuck off," said the tallest Goth, in true British etiquette. A half smirk spread across her scarlet painted lips, as she rested a hand on her hip.

"Charming," she said, her accent just as British and firm as the Goths that blinked in front of her.

"I aint 'ere to impress no one. So… fuck. Off!" the Goth said again, this again straightening himself up. He was about 6ft 4, and towered over her tiny 5ft 3 inch frame. But she never flinched as she just placed a cigarette in-between her lips and lit it, taking a long drag and blowing the smoke up in the face of the Goth. The other Goths whispered, turning their attention to their leader and the intruder.

"You better sling your fucking hook, or I'm gonna punch you right in your Chevy fucking chase!" the Goth snarled, leaning down so his face was level with hers.

"I'm looking for Remy LeBeau," she said, pushing his face away with her finger. "Your breathe is vile," she added. The Goths whispered behind their hands to each other, casting shadowy glances.

"And what would a slag like you want with the great, Remy LeBeau," the Goth laughed, raising his arms and encouraging his following to laugh along.

"Im his daughter."

The Goths fell silent. The leader froze, mid laugh. He slowly let his arms fall to his side and looked at the small woman.

"Come with me," he said shakily.

She followed him past the old stables and over a small bridge that creaked with each step that was placed. A small camp, alive with fire and festivity loomed ahead of them. He lead her past the lively gypsies and into a large tent. The tent was occupied by four people. They were seated around a large poker table, with cash piling sky high in the middle. She smiled when her eyes met the scarlet gaze of Remy Lebeau. The Goth lingered for a moment, before evacuating hastily.

"Give him the ol' daughter story did you?" Remy said amused, his eyes not leaving his cards.

"Yeah, hadn't used that one for a while."

"Aero, Meet my guests wont ya," Remy said, using his cowboy booted foot to push out a seat next to a steely haired older man.

"This is Magneto," he said, motioning to the older gentleman. Aero stared at the strange headwear the elderly gentleman had chosen to attire.

"That's a dorky looking helmet," she said, as a smile graced the elder mans face. His eyes connected with a blonde young man across the table, who exchanged a brief grin before the silvery eyes locked back onto Aero.

"Yes, young lady. I've heard that before."

"I believe you and Mystique have already met," Remy said as Aero rolled her eyes to the blue beauty who was seated close to Magneto. They exchanged a small smile and brief nod.

"And Pyro," The gambit said, motioning to the brooding blonde to his right. The blonde's icy gaze lingered on her for a moment, before returning to his cards, no emotion or change of stature evident in his handsome young face, although a seemingly permanent smirk flirted with the corners of his lips.

"Why are all these people here, Gambit?" Aero asked, taking out a wad of cash and throwing it into the pile. Gambit dealt the cards first, showing off his un natural card skills.

"We're playing for information," he said, as he picked up his cards. Aero smirked. She turned to Magneto.

"Aint being funny mate, but you aint gonna get no information playing against Remy," she smirked, her amber eyes flashing at her cards before folding them neatly down in front of her.

"Oh we have our ways," Magneto said softly, casting another glance over at the blonde. Aero followed his gaze to the nonchalant blonde and then gazed back at her cards.

"Then let the games begin."


	6. Chapter 6

"Professor?"

Charles Xavier looked up at the feeble voice that had come from behind his door.

Wide sapphire eyes stared cautiously at him and he welcomed them with a soft inviting smile.

"What can I do for you Pyro?" he inquired, setting down his silver writing pen on the varnished oak top table. The eyes disappeared behind the door for a moment, considering a reasonable request, before reappearing shyly with the rest of the small fragile body. He quietly closed the door, sure not to make any noise, and shuffled across the large circular room to the table, where he plopped down into a large red and green armchair.

"I want to remember," he said.

Charles nodded, looking the boy up and down.

"I want to know about my parents, if I have any siblings, about Aero and Ember…"

"Aero and Ember? How do you know about them?" Charles said suddenly, cutting the boys sentence in half. Johns baby blues looked up at the professor hopefully.

"I dream about them every night professor. But I have no idea who they are," he said quietly, looking down at his hands, as if ashamed.

"I think it best you start at the beginning, John, right from the beginning," the professor said, pulling a file out from a drawer to the right of him.

"What?"

"Shiro Yoshida. A.k.a Sunfire. He is the first person you should speak too," the professor said, handing the file to John who took it with shaky hands and immediately flipped opened it.

"He is sadly de-powered now, but he runs a small bar in Sydney where you grew up."

John's eyes scanned the old man in the file. He had dark grey hair, short, with a little moustache and goatee.

"Will he help me?" john asked, closing the file and resting it on his lap.

"Shiro would do anything for you, John."

**16 years earlier. Sydney Australia.**

He had run as fast as his small, delicate body could carry him. The pouring rain belted down across his back, pushing him further into the mud that seemed to swallow up his tiny feet. Tiny hands wiped at a mixture of rain, sweat, tears and blood from his swollen cheeks and his unusually bright eyes scanned the clearing frantically. His fingers tips were blackened, charred and he bravely ignored the pain as he brushed strands of blonde hair from his eyes, the hair whipping against his exposed, raw flesh.

"Help!" he shouted, pleaded almost as his surroundings became more and more unfamiliar. Before he could do anything to stop it, his aching legs buckled beneath him and he collapsed down into the flooded, muddy street. He wailed, his legs burning and his chest aching with a piercing stabbing sensation. Bloody tears streamed his pale, shivering face as he screamed for somebody, anybody, his tiny hands reaching out into nothingness. He shivered again, the rain soaking through his little red jumper and denim dungarees. The denim became heavy, and clung to his burning skin in an agonising grasp. Just as he had stopped screaming, about to give up hope, he felt a pair of hands around his waist, lift him up. Up out of the mud, up into the air. He screamed again, as he was bundled under a jacket and the darkness took over him. His little hands curled into fists as they pounded against the chest of the person who had captured him. He beat and he kicked and he screamed until fatigue embraced him and he hung limply, ignoring the pain that covered him like net.

The next thing that he was aware of, was that he was sitting on a wooden table, his mouth open with a pair of hazel, almond shaped eyes peering into it. His little eyes were barely open and he glared at the almond eyes with hate and confusion.

"Whats your name little one?" the strange man said, taking off his grey jacket and draping it over the boys shoulders. His voice was low and husky, and the rattle of a smokers cough. The boy began to scream again, tears streaming his face as his body rattled with sobs and gasps.

"Are you hurting?" the man asked. The boy managed to nod.

"Can you tell me where it hurts?"

"Everywhere."

"Ok son. My name is Shiro. Im not going too hurt you, I want too help you ok?" the man said. The boy looked at him for a moment, his trembling lips formed a pout. They were turning blue.

"I need to get these wet clothes off of you ok?"

The boy, defeated just slowly lifted his arms as Shiro undone the buttons on the dungarees. He stood the little one onto his feet and carefully slid them down to the boys ankles. Shiro took a step back, his stomach churning as he stared at the boys skinny legs. The boy started to cry again as cold air hit the bloody, blistered, burnt legs.

"Ok ok sweet," Shiro cooed, pulling the dungarees completely off and throwing them in a heap on the floor along with tiny shoes and socks. He carefully peeled the red jumper off, the boy wailing as bits of flesh came off with it, exposing pink raw skin and pulsating blisters. Shiro ran over to the telephone over by the old radio set and grasped it tightly.

"Ambulance. I need and ambulance, and police!"

The boy looked down at his bruised, tortured body end let out a long breath. He knew nobody loved him. He knew he was unwanted. But who could ever love him now? Now he was disfigured and mutilated. His mother was right. He was ugly.

"Wrap him in a blanket? Ok ok… keep him hydrated… 5 minutes ok thank you!"

Shiro disappeared into a backroom, and the little boy collapsed onto the table. The world as spinning and he found it difficult to heave in breath.

"Stay with me little one," came a voice, though it was distorted, like it wasn't really there. He knew he was being lifted, wrapped and cradled but his vision was blurred and everything sounded like he was underwater. He took in one last breathe, before all went black.

**Present day- Sydney Australia. **

John's steel capped toes tread lightly across the sandy roads, his sapphire gaze scanning the shops and bars. His eyes settled on an old wooden sign, the letters hanging gingerly by the odd nail.

"Shiro's bar."

John's infamous smirk pulled at the edges of his lips and he set off towards the bar, pushing the old creaky door with his gloved hands. The bar was empty and dull, dust, no longer able to settle, hung thick in the air.

"Yoshida-San? Anata wa doko! (where are you?)" he called, stepping gingerly into the dingy atmosphere. A small movement in the corner of the bar caught John's gaze and he turned his attention to what appeared to be a heap of rags.

"Come here," said a deep, husky voice from the rags. John swallowed, and inched forward nervously. He stopped a few feet away and perched himself on a barstool across from the dirty grey rags. Hazel, almond shaped eyes stared up at him, and a head lifted from the rags. The two men stared at each other.

"Only one little one, I know, with those eyes," the man said.

"Shiro?" John asked desperately. The man smiled, his olive face creasing with years of wisdom as he gently cupped John's face with on hand. He stared into his eyes, searching for the years of lost moments.

"Eyes like rain," he croaked, letting John's face go and sitting back in his stool, a rumbling cough exploding from his chest. John's lips parted slightly as he stared at the ancient face.

"I need help," he whispered, his eyes unable to leave the kind gaze of the elderly man before him.

"Of course, little one. Or else, you would not be here. How may I offer my services to you?"

"I need to know about my childhood," John said desperately, hoping to make it a quick visit.

"Ah yes, Charles called ahead, saying you were anxious for answers. But we need to slow it down, my child. Take it one step at a time."

"But I need to know now!" John asked desperately.

"Patience was never one of you strengths child," the old man chuckled.

"Johnnie… Remember the saying I tought you as a boy, 'ni usagi wo ou mono wa ichi usagi wo mo ezu'"

John thought for a moment. "One who chases two hares… wont even catch one?"

"Yes. You cant to do things at once my child," the old man said, pouring himself another glass of whiskey. The old mans tired eyes lay too rest on the young man across from him once again.

"Such a troubled child, you were," the old man sighed, stroking his beard with a frail jittery hand. John's features softened as he watched the old man reminisce.

"How did I end up with you?" he asked. "What happened to my parents?"

A sad, pained look came across the old mans face, his hazel eyes closing lightly. John shuffled uncomfortably in his stool.

"Did they," he whispered. "Die?"

Another look came across the older mans face, but john wasn't sure what it was.

"Unfortunately not."

**16 years earlier**

He watched as the young boy was carefully placed on a snow white hospital bed, the nurse gently stroking his hair as he cried. Shiro wanted to reach out to the boy, too comfort him as doctors poked and prodded with needles, but couldn't stand to see him in such distress. He looked away, ashamed that a human being could be conscious to feel such burning pain.

"Excuse me, may I talk to you?" the nurse said as she stepped lightly over to him. Shiro nodded and followed her into a separate cubicle.

"Where did you find him?" she asked, her dark gentle eyes gazing at him. Shiro cleared his throat, feeling as if he hadn't spoken for years.

"Outside my bar. In the rain," he croaked, clearing his throat once more.

"He's our baby," the nurse said. "The poor little mite is always in and out of here."

"What's his name?" Shiro asked, gazing sadly in the direction of the screams.

"The bitch didn't give him a name," the nurse spat, referring to the child's mother.

"We call him Saint John. After the name of the hospital," she added, pointing to the badge on her dress.

"All we know is that his surname is Allerdyce and that his mother is a heroin addict," she said sadly, adjusting her hat on top of her perfect fifties inspired curls.

"Sadly, we cant keep him here and no one will adopt him," the nurse carried on, peeling back the curtain to check on a now silent little boy.

"Good, he's sleeping."

"Why will no one adopt him?" Shiro asked, standing to join the nurse. The nurse stared shamefully at the floor.

"He's… he's a mutant child," she sighed, her dark eyes resting on the sleeping child's face. "Nobody wants the burden."

Shiro's face took on a disgusted image.

"Do you feel he is a burden, Nurse?" he snapped, crossing his arms across his chest. The nurse gazed forlornly at the child.

"Of course not. But sir, you must understand, if I didn't already struggle too feed my four children, St John would be at home with me." she assured, her tired fretful eyes tearing away from the sleeping child. Shiro just nodded and left the room.


	7. Chapter 7

A woman with long black hair rested her red, bruised cheek against the wall, holding a small pink blanket close to her chest. Her amber eyes were distant, withdrawn and stared far off into the distance. Her lips were dry and cracked, and a small trickle of blood had dried down her chin. Her breathing was slow, and she let her eyes rest for a moment, dropping them too the floor and closing them briefly.  
"Aero?"  
She sighed, opening her eyes and letting the amber gaze roll to the left.  
"Yes?"  
Fred Dukes, a mountain of a man, was sat next to her, his back resting against the bars that imprisoned them.  
"Don't worry sweetheart. They'll bring her back."  
Aero just returned her stare to the door about 20ft from the bars. The door where white coated men took her baby girl half hour ago.  
"I hope they know that when this cure wears off, and it will," she added, as Fred rolled his eyes. "I'm going too kill each and everyone of them."  
She pulled the pink blanket even closer to her chest, squeezing it tightly, her knuckles turning white. She strained her ears, trying to hunt down any signs of her daughter. Fred sighed and rested his head back onto the bars, staring across the cell at the peeling grey wall.  
"This is fucking bollocks," he said, getting up and walking over to a small bed, that barely supported his weight, let alone his size. "I thought he was coming for us?"  
"Who?"  
"Don't be thick."  
Aero sighed again, hurt clouding her features as she thought about him.  
"He promised. He wouldn't of forgotten that," she said simply, standing as she heard a key turn in the lock over on the door.  
"Aero!" the man said, stepping in through the door, a huge, pervy smile plastered across his bastard face.  
"Stryker." she said shortly, her honey eyes baring into his.  
"Where's Ember?" she said curtly, not in the mood for Strykers stupid games.  
"She's coming baby, don't worry. Anyhow, your next…"

Stryker looked Aero up and down as she struggled against the restraints that tied her to a metal frame. She was pinned in the middle of a large off white room, the white was off coz of years of blood being rinsed away.  
"You are such a powerful specimen," Stryker admired, as he circled the struggling woman. Her amber eyes burned into him as the word 'specimen' slapped her like a ton of bricks.  
"Im not a-"  
"Second most powerful specimen I have ever encountered," he went on, cutting her off mid sentence.  
"But, as Jean Grey is no more, that make you," he said, his watery blue eyes boring into hers. "The most powerful mutant on the planet."  
Aero's honey stare clung to the old colonel as he pulled out a chart that was resting on a desk just off from the metal frame.  
"You're a goddess Aero. To have the ability to control any liquid form… its mind boggling," Stryker purred as he crept closer to the now relaxed woman.  
"And when I get this stupid tag off… im gonna drown you in your own bodily fluids," she spat, as the colonel rested a hand on her bruised cheek.  
"But your not gonna get the tag off. Only when I can control you, will you get the tag off," he smirked as he gently tapped the thick black plastic that collared her neck.  
"You cant tame the sea, William," she threatened, as he pulled out a long syringe from his lab coat pocket.  
"Well I can sure as hell try," he grunted as he rammed the needle into her arm. She hissed as she watched scarlet fluid leave her arm and fill the syringe in the old mans hairy hands.

John lay his head on the soft white pillow, letting out a long, tired sigh. He gazed around the room. It was exactly as it had been 16 years ago, apparently. Baby blue, with little hand painted stars in silver and gold.  
"You had always been fascinated with the supernatural. Especially space," Shiro had told him. There were photo's littering the space above his bed and he stared up at them, drying to absorb a memory or even recognition. He knew that the little boy with the dirty blonde hair, huge blue eyes and grumpy expression was him. He hadn't changed. he sat up, reaching down into the bag beside his bed and pulled out the photo of Aero and Ember. He placed it on the bedside table, and stared at it, until he drifted into a heavy slumber.

Shiro looked at the clock in the kitchen, sat at the very table he had discovered John's injuries. He picked up the phone, slowly dialling in a number.

"Hello?"

"Shiro?"

"Yes Eric Its me."

"Is John with you?"

"Yes."

"Im on my way."

"Eric Wait!"

"Yes?"

"Its too soon too tell him about Aero and the little one."

"I know, I know."

"It will destroy him if he knows what happened with them."

"Yes. Me and Mystique and already on our way."

"Ok. Ill see you soon."

"My regards, Shiro."

"…"

"…"

_Hi. If your still reading the story would really appreciate a review, even if its just saying that you are actually reading it =D_

_Will be much quicker with my updates if I think people are waiting!_

_Would also like to know what you think?_

_And see if anyone can figure out who Aero is _

_Any improvements would be great too!_

_love love_

_December xoxox_


	8. Chapter 8

Mystique sat on the end of the sleeping boys bed, running a sapphire hand through his hair. The cure, long worn off, she had never felt more grateful for her ocean coloured skin. John was like a son too her and he heart ached to see him in such a sorry state of mind. He sighed in his sleep and cuddled into her warmth, his lips quivering in his dream like manner. Mystique let out a long breath and lowered herself down, planting a light kiss on his forehead.

"Sweet dreams, little man."

Aero straightened herself out as she was pushed roughly back into her cell. She kept her head high, her posture straight, trying to retain any dignity that clung to her being. Fred was sat on his small cot, the thin, stained mattress sagging low near the sticky ground. A small child was cradled comfortably in his arms, her blonde curls framing her pale round face.

"Is she ok?" Aero asked, as she crossed the room and sat next to Dukes on the bed, resting her tired and sore head on the huge mans broad shoulders. Fred just nodded, and pulled the little girl into his chest as her staggered breathing echoed around the small cell, bouncing off every stain and every chip in the crumbling cement walls. Aero raised a shaky hand and gently ran it through the short golden curls, each one soundlessly pinging back to its original place.

"We need to get out of here Fred," Aero sighed tiredly, tucking her legs up onto the bed beside her.

"He'll Come, honey," Fred assured, although the eerie gasps of doubt circled his every word. Aero closed her eyes, chewing on her lip, something Fred noticed she did when she was thinking. Fred put his arm around the young woman, as the little girl sighed in her sleep and cuddled closer into his chest.

"You need to rest," Fred said, slowly pushing himself up and laying Aero gently down on the cot. He kissed the little one on the forehead and lay her next to her mother, as the two girls slept on. He stood up, and stretched his huge arms out in front of them. He couldn't stretch them up in the air, the cell was too small and he was simply too big. He gazed adoringly down at the two girls. He loved those too girls more than he ever thought it was possible too love someone.

"Shame the feelings one sided," he sighed, walking over to the bars and sitting himself down, his back leaning against them, waiting for his turn to be assessed.

The mansion was still and silent as Logan prowled the corridors. A deep set snarl was carved into his features, and with the prowess of a wolverine, he weightlessly stalked up the marble stairs. A scent had caught his attention, and like the animal he was often compared, he went on the hunt. The scent was subtle, it had a weak, yet musty odour and it moved astonishingly fast through the air. The wolverine sniffed, pulling in the tiny particles of air that were laced with that musty aura. He was close now. Effortlessly blending into the thick shadows that painted the cream walls, he silenced a growl that was erupting from his chest. His prey knew he was following it. He could smell the warm, unmistakable scent of fear. Subconsciously, his claws unsheathed, the silver moonlight that flooded in through the open window across the hall glittered playfully along the smooth adamantium surface. He held his breath, so the only noise that was heard in the wolverines head were the quick yet quiet footsteps rushing towards him. He waited, 3...2...1...

With a snarl he pounced, just as the prey past him and pinned the struggling person down to the floor. Red eyes met green as the person who was now struggling under the immense weight of Logan's metallic skeleton froze in shock.

"What're you doing here, bub?" the wolverine growled, in a deep husky snarl, his un sheathed claws just inches away from the victims throat.

"The professor…" the victim choked desperately, his skinny hands wrapped around Logan's bulging muscles. "I need to speak to the professor!"

The wolverine hesitated, as the other mans accent filled his ears. It sparked some sort of alliance within him. That sort of half French, half southern accent that was often full of confidence and playfulness, but was now tinged with sincerity and doubt.

"Gambit?" the wolverine asked, as he slowly sat up, yet still not loosening his killer grip on the other mans throat. The shorter, smaller man nodded profusely, his red eyes alight with fright. Logan slowly lifted himself up, pulling the Gambit up with him. The massive, muscular man twitched in annoyance as he silently dragged the whimpering thief through the corridors.

"This better be worth my time, bub," Logan grunted as he thrust the thief through the large oak doors.

John rolled over in his sleep, his eyelids flickering madly as he raced through dreams. Although each dream was different, they all resembled the same thing. Fire, and water. Yet, no matter how hot the flame burned, or how thick the water flowed, they never out did each other, and seemed to entwine and work together, like it was the most natural thing in the world. His eyes opened, and he sat up, cradling his head in his hands. The images were still circling his mind and a voice… a soft, female voice, with an unknown accent, singing gently in his ear.

_Hush little baby don't you cry,_

_Everything's gonna be alright_

_Daddy's gonna buy you a mocking bird_

_I'm gonna give you the whole wide world_

Over and over, the voice sang the song. John let out a soft moan and fell back onto his pillow, his dirty blonde hair angled in all directions. He closed his eyes again, gently tapping his head, trying to get the song out of his head.

Giving up with a bemused grunt, he swung his legs out of the bed, looking down at them. His stomach churned as he looked at them. They were something even the most powerful amnesia couldn't make you forget. Of course, over time, over his 16 years, they had healed. But you couldn't mistake those pale pink ridges, that mapped around his entire leg for anything else. Ironic really, that the one thing that he has complete control over, was once his greatest fear. He hastily pulled on a pair of baggy dark blue jeans and a black tank top that showed of his muscular, toned arms in a flattering manner. He left the room, and slowly descended the stairs, lazily pushing his hair back into place. He stopped, halfway down his decent, as hushed voices raced around his ears.

"He's not ready, Eric."

"He needs too know."

"Not yet he doesn't. Let the poor boy at least find himself before trying to find others."

"He's their only hope, Shiro, and you know it."

Pyro sat on the step, listening to the argument between the two men, not sensing the pair of yellow eyes transfixed upon him. He sighed and closed his eyes, leaning back against the rest of the steps, that dug into his back. He ran a hand through his hair, a habit he had got into doing, and opened his eyes again. This time, the yellow eyes were looking down at him.

"You know, eavesdropping is a bad habit to get into," she said. He stared up at her, transfixed by her beautiful topaz skin, and copper coloured hair.

"I… I didn't mean to," he stuttered, as a small smile played on the blue creatures lips, her intimidating yellow stare softened with fondness.

"Do you remember me, Pyro?" she asked, feeling her heart sink a little as he slowly shook his head, his icy gaze staring up at her fearfully. Her smirk remained on her face. It was not in her nature to falter and show weakness.

"Pyro, Eric and I have many things to discuss with you," she said, extending her hand out for him too take. He looked from her face, down to her hand, before gingerly placing his own in hers, long blue fingers curling around his palm.

"Come with me."


	9. Chapter 9

Hi guys its only me, December.

As you can probably tell, im a little stuck on where too go. i have too many ideas that ive confused myself.

I would love too hear from anyone who reads this, it only takes a second just too post a little comment.

Where do you think i should go with this?

Even just a comment saying you liked it will do a world of good!

Any constructive critisism would be greatly appreciated also.

Thankyou! hope too hear from you soon.

December xox


	10. Chapter 10

_Thankyou sooo much too everyone who has reviewed, special thanks too **Shay** who answered my desperate plea! Honestly guys, as soon as I read a review from you I write straight away so please keep them coming!_

_Sorry this has been soooooooo long await, hope its worth it. Should be starting to answer some questions in the next few chapters too ;)_

**14 years earlier**

He was described as an emotionally challenged, disturbed and obnoxious young boy, and he had been the same since the day Shiro bought him home from the St John's hospital. He shunned human contact, preferring to sit by himself, muttering under his breath as he quietly and contently destroyed various belongings, of his or others. Shiro didn't know what too do with the child, who was slowly becoming more and more twisted and dark in the hours he spent accompanied only by himself and his thoughts.

This was when Mystique first came across the infant, which she would later grow to become fond of. She sat with Shiro, about 20 ft away from the child and observed his mild mannered, yet abnormal behaviour. He had peered at her briefly, noting her crystal blue skin, but returned to his work in front of him, which was now the melted remains of an action man doll. A normal child, clearly would have been puzzled by her appearance, but John either had seen something of the sort before, or found abnormality strangely comforting.

"He's… different," Mystique muttered, her yellow eyes taking in the child's mop of blonde hair and expressionless features. Shiro just sighed and leant his chin on his hand, shaking his head tiredly from side too side.

"He shows no empathy towards others. He's completely withdrawn from reality," he explained as John pushed himself awkwardly up too his feet and tiptoed against the wall, trying to reach the stuffed dog that sat on a pile of books.

"What do you suggest, Mystique?"

She thought for a moment, gazing at the child and frowning before a small smile turned the corners of her lips.

"There is another child, like him," she said, turning her attention to the man across from her. "A little girl. Her name's Jazz. She's 5 aswell. They shoud meet."

"Well, if that's what it takes."

John begrudgingly followed Shiro too the park, on the hot, August afternoon. His blue eyes seemed too glow furiously as he kicked open the gate and stormed through it, dropping to the ground in a shaded patch and sulking to himself. The park was busy, full of screaming and laughing children, John's worst nightmare. He huffed and slid away from Shiro, who had knelt down too talk to the stubborn infant.

"Fuck off," he grumbled, those words sounding so out of place in a childs innocent voice. He tore at some grass and glanced up at the other children in the park. Shiro couldn't decide if it was nerves or hate he saw in the childs eyes, maybe both. John turned towards his carer and glared for a moment, before whimpering;

"I want house now please."

Shiro shook his head and pointed too the gate.

"Not yet John, look someone's come too play with you today."

John looked at the tall blue woman with what appeared to be disgust, and then at the girl who was stomping along beside her, with a similar expression to that of Johns. She had long black hair tied into high bunches and was wearing a white summer dress with red shoes. Her amber gaze fell onto John and she stared him down for a moment before folding her arms.

"Him? You want me too talk to _him?_" the girl snapped in a refined English accent.

"Jasmine, go and play with John, now."

Mystique appeared too have very limited patience with children and Jasmine seemed to be very much aware of this, as she slunk towards John, her disgusted expression remaining as she stood over the boy, looking down at him. Literally.

"I don't like you. Your too pretty to be a boy. Freak," she spat coldly as John pushed himself up slowly, the burns on his skin beneath his blue dungarees often causing him pain in movement.

"You have stupid voice. Dress is foul," he growled, his vocabulary and speaking ability not quite as advanced as Jasmine's, perhaps fuelling his frustration towards her. They glared at eachother for a moment before a small smirk slowly spread their lips.

"Mystique said your special, like me," she said, twirling a piece of her hair in her fingers. John nodded.

"I make fire. I burn stuff," he said. Jasmine nodded curiously as she smiled and said proudly;

"I control water. I like too drown people."

The two were inseperable ever since.

**Present day**

"I need to know everything Remy, about Pyro and Aero. Start from the very beginning. Anything you think wont be important to say, will be. I mean everything," Xavier asked the rogue was sat leaning in his chair across from the professor. Gambit leant foward, a small twinkle in his eye and a smile on his face.

"Pyro and Aero? My, Tha' be a mighty long story," he said, pulling his gloved hands out of his pockets and folding them in his lap.

"Remy... please."

"Righ'... They reunited after 5 long years apart at a gathering held by Magneto...

_It was a strange relationship that they shared. A strangely beautiful acquaintance, in which although everything was dusted with hate and snide comments, something beautiful still managed to blossom. A strange relationship. But a relationship none the less. It had started with a glance, an ill timed, misplaced glance in which the "glance-ee" was not most appreciative. A stare, then followed this abomination of a subtle glance, which was replied with a callous flick of long black hair and an invisible warning of "back off"._

_But of course, the stare was then followed by curiosity, icy blue eyes, intrigued by porcelain skin tone that radiated a few feet away. Plump red lips, that pouted together in an annoyed fashion, which eventually lead too infatuation. Funny, how a mirage of emotions arrive and develop in a matter of seconds. Of course, such a dangerous cocktail of emotion as these, can only lead to confusion, as in a moment of clarity he remembers whom that long back hair, porcelain skin and plump red lips belong. Infatuation is soon disfigured and manipulated into dislike. But only disfigured. Changed on the outside, but deep down, the infatuation is still there. Maybe that's what makes this woman so intriguing. She was so easy too hate, yet so easy too love. A vicious circle of strong emotions circulated her very presence and it gnawed away at him like a carnivorous disease. Yes, he was infected by her. Addicted…almost. There was still a part of him that could see the flaws in her perfect self. This wasn't addiction. This was almost addiction. And an almost addiction was much worse. To be almost addicted to something, someone, you couldn't just revel in the benefits, you couldn't just absorb the good. When your almost addicted you still see the bad and distaste. Like purchasing a fake item, you reek in the joy and containment, yet somewhere deep in your mind, you still know that it's fake, a phony, a copy. That's what she was too him. She was dangerously beautiful. She was stunningly talented. She was sickeningly smart. But… She was an emotional explosion. She was cold hearted bitch. She loved him, but never knew how too show it. So although the two, bound together by promises and love, sat at opposite sides of the room, interacting with different people, and not acknowledging eachothers presence, they could be at ease, knowing that in a time of need, the other was by their side, silently supporting and invisibly protecting. Even after all these years apart, and without speaking a word, everything was back too normal, as if they had never been apart._

_Yes, it was a strange relationship, but a relationship none the less._

_It was only when the dance had finished, the guests had left and darkness took over, that she glided over too the bar across the street, where she knew he'd be. She knew him better than he knew himself. And there he was, leant casually against the bar, his back too her as he ordered himself, no doubt, a JD on the rocks. She silently placed herself next too him and ordered the same._

_"Jim Jam got hot," she muttered, still staring ahead of her at the mirror behind the bar. A smirked at his childhood nickname and glanced at her._

_"I was always hot spazz, you were just too ugly too appreciate real beauty."_

_Too a normal person, this conversation would have been considered arrogant and demeaning, but this was just light chat too two people with ice hearts. She looked up at him with her honey glare and took him in properly. His hair was darker, his face coated in a light stubble, but he still had the same soft features that had always made him a hit with the ladies. The perfectly arched eyebrows, smooth skin, big blue eyes... god she hated him. Meanwhile, he stared at her in the same manner, taking in her typically feminine, dainty features and admiring how she really had blossomed from a pretty little girl, into a beautiful young woman._

_"What are you doing back in America?" he asked, taking a sip of his drink as she drummed her mannicured nails on the bar._

_"Mystique called me over, said that herself and Eric have big plans for the brotherhood and wanted me involved," she explained, flicking her hair over her shoulder. "I hear you're Eric's new little pet," she said, her eyes glinting as she belittled him publicly. He shrugged and returned too his drink. After a moments silence, he turned too her again, and smirked._

_"My place?"_

…Dey're whole relationship was built on a mutual understanding of eachothers hate," Gambiy explained, his fiery eyes drifting thoughtfully into a glazed expression. The professor nodded politely and beckoned for the thief to continue.

"Dem two is madly in love you see," Gambit smiled, leaning forward onto the desk. "Dem just too stupid too see it."


	11. Chapter 11

Hey guys,

im not getting any feedback from anyone and ive lost my inspiration for this story now.

But dont worry! Aero and Pyro will be back ;)

Im working on something better. Ive developed more as a mature writer and hope that my next effort will be more of a success.

Taaaa guys!

see you soon.

December xxx


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